


The High Road

by Dracze



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot, Secret Crush, Sickfic, Villains, villain sitcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22510489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracze/pseuds/Dracze
Summary: Riddler deals with a sick Joker camping on his couch.
Relationships: Joker/Edward Nygma
Comments: 14
Kudos: 122





	The High Road

**Author's Note:**

> Have a silly, purely self-indulgent thing I drabbled a long time ago when I was sick and needed my favorite character to suffer as I did, but also to live vicariously through him by giving him someone to take care of him. This takes place in the preboot period when Eddie was semi-reformed and worked as a Private Eye, because that's my favorite arc for him - but I couldn't resist sneaking in some TWOJAR-style "Riddler has a secret crush on Joker" in there because I'm a sucker for that angle. 
> 
> Enjoy the silliness.

The sneeze from the living room startles Edward into dropping the cup he was washing into the sink. The cup doesn’t break, but when Edward lifts it up into the light, he notices a new chipped spot around the rim. 

He sighs, and puts the cup down. 

Joker can have this one. 

Edward puts the cup away to dry and washes the other one. In the living room, there’s an explosion of giggles that’s nearly as loud as the sneeze was, and that deteriorates into a series of rapid-fire coughs in no time at all. 

Figures.

Still, Edward takes his sweet time washing his own cup and drying his hands on the rag, and takes twice as long as usual to put the kettle on. He’s slow scooping out the honey and cutting the lemon. This apartment’s old, from a time when people didn’t hate walls and preferred to contain their cooking odors — Edward’s determined to enjoy the illusion of peace the kitchen affords for as long as he can.

Lord knows he doesn’t get much of it anywhere else in this place these days, save maybe for the bathroom.

And even that’s not a guarantee.

“Eddie!” Joker calls from the living room. “Hurry up, you’re missing it! You won’t believe what they —” 

And there it goes. Joker’s voice, rendered thrice as annoying by the flu, gets swallowed up by the disgusting throaty coughs that the whistle of the kettle mercifully drowns. Edward takes refuge in that for as long as he can before he turns off the heat and pours the water. 

“You know,” he says, bringing his own cup of tea and Joker’s honey-and-lemon over to the coffee table. “Call me crazy, but you _might_ get better faster if you don’t strain your voice all the time.” 

Joker, of course, doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at Edward, too engrossed in the old Looney Tunes reruns. 

The same ones he’s been watching, on loop, for the last 24 hours.

Still, better this than the soap operas, Edward supposes. Or the game shows. Edward’s put a firm and indefinite ban on those — they tend to irritate him even more than the other stuff, especially when the contestants display all the sentience and cognitive function of a rotting vegetable. 

“Joker,” he tries. Grudgingly, he nudges the newly chipped cup — the one with the bat symbol on it, and boy, the ridiculously vicious fight they had over the thing when Joker first dropped by — towards his _guest_. “Here. Drink this, you imbecile. You can barely speak.” 

“What?” Joker croaks. On the screen, Wile E. Coyote gives a forlorn wave to the audience before plunging to his inevitable cartoonish demise, and Joker cackles, or, more accurately, wheezes in delight. 

“Your drink,” Edward seethes through gritted teeth. “Take it. Or don’t. I’m starting to think I should just let you lose your voice for good.” 

“You say the sweetest things,” Joker manages, wheezily. 

He grins at Edward, and it’s more than a little disturbing how charming he can make it look even with his nose red from the cold, his unnatural skin gleaming with sweat, his hair all dirty and his eyes shining with fever. Edward’s response to having Joker’s attention on him, however briefly, is no less volatile for the three days of continuous exposure, and he has to duck his head to hide the hot spots of color high on his cheeks.

He hates himself for it, just a little.

Not that _that’s_ news.

Slowly, Joker navigates the mountain of blankets he’s swaddled in to poke a skinny white hand out and drag the cup over. He’s careless with it, letting some of the water spill over the blankets when he lifts it to his lips, and his eyes fix right back on the TV as though Edward’s no longer there. 

(As though it’s the easiest thing in the world to ignore him.)

Edward bites back a warning to let the drink cool a bit. He’s tried that before, and, predictably, all his perfectly sound and reasonable advice fell on deaf ears. 

Well, fine. Let the idiot burn himself if he wants to. See if Edward cares. 

He takes his own tea and moves over to the armchair. Sofa space is another thing he’s ceded ground on recently, not that he had much choice in the matter. Joker’s all but glued to the thing by now, only leaving it when he needs the bathroom, and the few times Edward tried sitting next to him, Joker put his feet _or_ his head in his lap, demanding that Edward stroke his hair. 

Edward’s kept as far away from the sofa as he can, after that.

Besides, the thing’s been bearing a sick Joker’s weight for three days. Edward isn’t sure he’ll be able to touch it without gloves after Joker leaves, and has already started eyeing IKEA catalogs for a replacement. 

At least he can afford it.

He watches Joker chug the scalding water like it’s nothing, and spill half of it when the cartoon antics inspire yet another bout of laugh-cough-choke. Edward rolls his eyes, and sips at his green tea to stop himself offering more advice for the clown to ignore. His eyes follow Joker’s to the TV, and idly, he watches the Coyote as he prepares yet another misbegotten plan, destined to come to nothing. 

“This is idiotic,” he murmurs when the stupidity gets too glaring to abide for a second longer. “How in the world could anyone expect it to work?” 

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Joker counters. 

“Thank you for proving my point.”

“No, see.” Joker moves under his mountain of blankets, and grabs yet another tissue. “It really does! From Wile E.’s perspective, he painted a tunnel on solid rock. If you did this, you wouldn’t expect Batsy to just drive through it as though it was real.”

“I’d never go for something so dumb in the first place.” 

“Well, no, _you_ wouldn’t. You don’t have the talent or the imagination to pull it off.”

“And you do?”

“Why, of course. Not to brag or anything, but let’s just say that when I paint my hideouts, jaws tend to drop. The point is — “

“The point is that _this_ ,” Edward gestures to the TV, “is pure childish nonsense. How does the Road Runner run through solid rock? Does he have magic powers? Is that ever explained? And why doesn’t the Coyote just move on to something he _can_ catch? How hasn’t he starved to death yet? Isn’t it frustrating to see him fail over and over and over again?”

“You’re such a sad little person, Edster.” Joker blows his nose, and, sure enough, discards the tissue carelessly on the floor. “No wonder Harley isn’t inviting you to movie nights anymore. For a man who dabbles in wordplay, you can be so painfully _literal_.”

Stung, and far more worked up over this and Joker’s dismissal than he knows he should be, Edward squirms in his chair, gripping the tea cup tight. 

“I like it when things make sense,” he mutters defensively. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s worse than bad,” Joker complains. “It’s _boring_.”

Spots of angry heat bloom on Edward’s cheeks again, and he has to put the teacup down on the little table — he likes it too much to let it break, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to chuck it at Joker’s thick, smug, ignorant face.

Everything in him is telling him to leave it. That this is just Joker being his usual, infuriating, casually cruel self. 

But Edward’s tolerated him — cared after him — for days now, and received nothing but derision in return. Enough is enough.

“Then why are you here?” he demands. “Your very presence here puts my hard-earned parole in jeopardy. I’m risking _everything_ just putting you up here, especially when there are so many other places you can go.”

Joker doesn’t even bother looking at him when he shrugs, and burrows himself under the blankets up to his nose.

“But there aren’t, though,” he mumbles in his annoying, stuffy voice. “Not really.”

“Sure there are. What about your little retreat room at the Lounge?” 

“Can’t go there,” Joker tells him between coughs and sniffles. “It’s cold and dank and Ozzie always pretends that part of the place doesn’t exist when I’m around. I’d be on my own. I hate being on my own when I’m sick.”

Oh. Well, that’s… That’s certainly new. Edward blinks, and looks at Joker to study him more carefully, trying to remember the last time he asked Joker a question and Joker actually _answered_.

Only goes to show how tired he must be, if he’s decided to forego his stupid mind games this time. Edward considers this, some of the fight melting out of him despite his best efforts to cling to the familiar safety of irritation.

“That’s... uncharacteristically candid of you,” he says. “I’ve asked you this question before, you know. You’ve _never_ given me a straight answer.” 

“Oh, you know me. I never do anything _straight_ if I can help it.” Joker laughs, or tries to. It only ends in another explosive, ear-splitting sneeze, and he moans pathetically, burying himself in the blankets and pillows and closing his red-rimmed eyes. 

Edward watches him for another moment, noting the unhealthy glow to his skin. He hesitates for a heartbeat or so, and then swallows, gets over himself, and leans over to touch Joker’s forehead. 

It’s sweaty and hot, as are Joker’s cheeks when Edward’s fingers skim over them. Joker gives a little sigh at Edward’s touch, and tilts his face into it. Edwards quickly snatches his hand away. 

“Well, that explains it,” he says briskly, folding his hands tight together over his lap, covertly rubbing the imprint of heat from Joker’s skin deeper into his own. “You’re feverish again. Stay here, I’ll get you your medicine.”

“Hel _lo_ , nurse,” Joker lilts, nonsensically, and tries to whistle before his voice trails off into nothing.

Edward leaves him to it and strides back to the kitchen, relieved to have something to do for his still-burning, shaky hands. He dissolves the aspirin in hot water and waits impatiently as it sizzles, glancing back at Joker through the kitchen door every few seconds and pretending, rather poorly, that he isn’t. 

Not that there’s any risk of getting caught. Joker keeps his eyes closed all through it, ignoring both Edward and his cartoons alike, and if Edward didn’t know any better, he’d assume Joker fell asleep.

But he does know better. So he isn’t too worried about waking him up when he goes back to the living room and says, “You know, you could talk to Oz. Tell him to order room service for you. Get one of his people to look after you.”

Joker gives a quiet hum, and shifts under the blankets to find a more comfortable position.

“Nah, can’t let him see me like this,” he argues sleepily, trying to blink up at Edward with his red, puffy eyes. “Ozzie isn’t like you. He’d take advantage.”

Edward’s first response is to scoff at that, but, well. Joker’s got a point. 

“All right, yes, he probably would,” he concedes. “You’ve still got plenty of hideouts and henchmen that’d gladly wait on you hand and foot.” 

_For whatever reason,_ he thinks, bitterly, and isn’t proud of it. He _knows_ the reason. He had his own fair share of loyal mooks, too, and even though their methods to inspire devotion are different, he understands the basic mechanics behind the fanatical adoration Joker enjoys. 

(He used to think _he_ was immune. He ignores the nasty little voice in his head pointing out that the clown currently camping rent-free on his couch says otherwise.)

Anyway, Edward rather prides himself on the fact that, throughout his criminal career, he never needed such cult tactics to get his recruits to cooperate. More often than not, his name, and the promise of a good haul, were more than enough. Unlike some, Edward isn’t delusional enough to need _worship_ to build up his self-esteem. 

Not anymore, anyway. 

_And it’s gonna stay that way, Ed old boy_ , he tells himself. _You’re doing great. Don’t let the clown ruin that._

“Can’t let them see me like this, either,” Joker claims in a stuffy, pitiful voice. “Half the magic is them thinking I’m some sort of invincible demon. If they saw me catch a cold like any old Tom, Dick and Harry, it’d be like, poof! Spell broken.” 

“Huh.” Edward takes a moment, then carries the glass over to Joker. “Again, that’s surprisingly honest of you. And insightful. Here, drink up.”

“I’ve played the game longer than you, Eddiekins,” Joker points out. “I know a thing or two about how to work this town.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let it get to your head. Which you should lift now. Come on, before I accidentally spill this all over you.” 

“Bet you wanna spill _something_ all over me.” Joker tries to laugh, and makes an effort to lift himself up. He just about manages it, and mercifully, takes the glass himself so Edward is spared the indignity of holding it up for him — or holding _him_. 

This time, anyway. 

“What about Harley?” he asks, mostly just for something to say while he takes the empty glass back to the sink to rinse it right away. 

“Off in New York. With Pammy.” 

“Ah.” No wonder things have been quieter than usual in Gotham lately. 

Edward thinks about this some more, and then suggests, “Well, there’s always Arkham. You’ve gone back there on your own before. They could take proper care of you.”

Joker gives a wheezy laugh. “Oh, Ed, you old cad. And here I thought _I_ was supposed to be the joke guy in this relationship!”

“All right, perhaps ‘proper’ care is an overstatement,” Edward agrees, reclaiming his chair and trying to ignore the flutter his heart did at the word _relationship_. “But still, you’d be in a familiar place, with your own things around you, being taken care of by people who are actually qualified… for the most part.” 

Joker watches him for a longer moment, blinking owlishly, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

Then, he asks, “Would _you_ go?” 

“What?”

“Think about it, Eduardo. If you got sick, would you want _them_ looking after you? Would you let them see you like this, knowing what they’re like… what they do to you… when they think you’re strong?”

His eyes are bright. Way too bright, and far, far too knowing for someone with only one leg just about toeing lucidity. It feels scalding, and Edward looks away.

And then he just — sits there for a bit, in silence, gripping the armchair handrests. Thinking about Joker’s words. Imagining it. Going cold.

He gets up, and pours himself a Scotch. 

“See?” Joker whispers, scratchy and hoarse. “I’ve got nowhere else I can go. Nobody else likes me.”

“I don’t like you,” Edward points out, his back to Joker, glass of Scotch in his hand. 

It’s shaking a bit. He does his best to get a proper grip, but he’s too unsteady for that just yet, so he stays where he is, waiting for Joker’s response. 

“Yeah you do,” Joker whispers.

The fucker.

“I _don’t_ ,” Edward insists. “All those reasons you’ve listed apply to me, too. I could take advantage. I could kill you, right now, and be done with it.”

“You could,” Joker agrees, easily. Almost lazily. “So why don’t you?”

 _Why indeed._ And boy, Edward’s got answers for that. Answers he’s formulated for himself many times in the past — every time Joker came knocking, and every time Edward didn’t turn him away.

None of them ring true, and the ones that do are far too humiliating and pathetic to contemplate. 

“It’s a riddle,” he murmurs to his own reflection in the window. “Solve it.” 

“I’m not stupid, you know,” Joker mumbles. When Edward glances at him, his eyes are closed again, and he’s breathing shallowly, sweaty face pressed to the pillow. “I know you hate me, too. In your own way. And sure, you could kill me. Maybe you will, one of these days. But not anytime soon.”

“And why’s that?” Edward snaps, something dark and ugly building in his chest and agitating his heart. “Please. Enlighten me.”

“Because _he_ needs me,” Joker whispers, “just as he needs you. And deep down, you know it. You can sense it’s not your place to kill me. That the story wouldn’t play out right.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Edward tells him, turning away from the window. He stalks over to his chair and sits back down, violently, gripping the whisky glass hard enough that the edges bite into his fingers. That ugly, nervous, fluttery-hot spiral, the one Joker’s so good at sparking in him, is tightening in his chest nice and proper now, a cocktail of resentment and jealousy and pettiness and hurt and — 

“I think you do,” Joker murmurs. “And it scares you. But that’s okay. It’s his story, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try and make it yours. In fact, you have to. You’ve got to believe it’s yours for all of it to work.” 

“Your fever’s getting worse,” Edward says, sharply. “This tripe is nonsensical, even for you.”

“You’re defensive, and that’s okay. I get it. That’s only because you know I’m right.”

“Keep at it, and I might haul you off to Arkham after all.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re better than that, Eddiebuns. I trust you.”

Edward squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, deep breath. 

Right. Right.

“So what you’re saying is…” He pauses, and does his level best to calm the agitated stutter in his chest. “That’s why you’re choosing to stay with me? Because you trust me?”

“Sure. You’re my friend! And besides, you’re harmless.”

And just like that, everything in Edward turns to ice.

“What?”

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” Joker tells him.

“ _How_ ,” Edward snaps, “can you call me harmless in a good way, then? Come on, Joker, let’s hear it. I’m all ears.”

Joker shrugs. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Just can. You’re cute. It’s okay.”

“I should just kick you out in the street,” Edward mutters, and his voice shakes on the way out. The spots of color in his cheeks are back with a vengeance, and his knee starts jerking before he can fold his hands over it to keep it still. “Let _Batman_ take care of you if he _needs_ you so much.”

“Oh, Batsy _definitely_ can’t see me like this,” Joker whispers. “He isn’t ready. Would ruin his fun. He needs us to be the best we can be so he can be the best _he_ can be.”

“What utter hogwash,” Edward snaps. “So, what, everyone else is off limits, but you’re fine staying with _me_? Letting _me_ see you all vulnerable and — and — human?”

“Well, yeah.” Joker’s voice is quiet and infuriatingly calm. “I already said I trust you. You’re not a threat.” 

The hot, ugly spiral boils, burning him with something restless and painful. Edward gets up from the chair and starts pacing around the room just to walk off the worst of it before he does something he’ll regret. The glass burns his hand, itching to be thrown. 

“So you’re basically saying,” he minces, “that you’re fine trusting me because I’m useless.”

“I trust you because you’re you.” Joker blinks and furrows his forehead, as though struggling to think about it. “Which, I suppose… yes?”

… Right.

_Right._

Edward crashes the glass to the floor, stalks out of the room, grabs his jacket from the rack, struggles into his shoes with furiously shaking hands, and slams the door on his way out. 

Unbelievable.

Un-fucking-believable.

The rage propels Edward to stalk almost blindly for four blocks before it even begins to dissipate, and even when it does, Edward does his best to hold onto it, nursing it like a flame. His therapist insists he shouldn’t indulge his darker impulses, but she’s an idiot — sometimes rage is _good_.

Far better than the alternative, anyway. 

And besides, Edward isn’t indulging. If anything, this is all so he doesn’t do what he _really_ wanted to do, which is stride over to Joker, grab him by his stupid dirty hair, and —

He breathes, and stops when his feet carry him over to the river bank. 

Okay. Okay. Just…breathe. Take it easy.

_You’ve got this._

He watches the river for a bit, letting the breeze wash over him, and then takes off down the river bank. Nasty epithets directed at Joker crowd in his head, and he lets them swirl there freely, without censure, to mingle with the still-simmering resentment. He burns through them all without hurry as he strolls up and down the waterfront, and then takes the scenic route home, the city providing a reliable stream of background noise for his thoughts to drown in. 

It… helps. A bit. As much as anything can help when you’re dealing with The Clown Prince of Assholes, and it also helps that he’s got plenty of experience handling Joker — and his complicated feelings for Joker, too. Edward’s nerves are still rattled, and his hackles very much raised, when he tentatively opens the door to his ratty apartment, but at least he isn’t feeling straight-up murderous anymore. And that’s got to count for something. 

_Take the high road, Nygma,_ he tells himself as he tiptoes over to the living room. _You know you’ve got it. Who cares what the mental case thinks, anyway? It’s you they respect. Batman consults you on cases. Joker is nothing but an insecure projecting megalomaniac, and just because some of his ranting rings true doesn’t mean a goddamn thing._

He’s just about to lay it all on Joker, loud and proud, when he comes into the living room and finds the man asleep on the couch — actually, properly asleep — mouth open and breath labored, skin sweaty, tissue crumpled loose in his hand. 

He looks pathetic, and vulnerable, and weak. 

_Human._

It’s not quite enough to kick all the wind out of Edward but... it comes close. 

Way too close. 

It’s easy to take the high road, he realizes as he quietly puts on a pair of rubber gloves and sets about collecting the tissues into a trash bag, when the person driving you mad happens to be a weak snivelling wreck who can’t even laugh without almost choking to death. The great Joker, reduced to this. Having to rely on Edward to nurse him — and not to kill him — because he has nowhere else to go.

That, right there, is a heady feeling, and one of the reasons why Edward hasn’t betrayed that trust yet. He wants to keep this, and lord it over Joker, internally if not out loud. He wants the Clown Prince of Crime in his debt. And he wants those moments of superiority — of being not just better, but trusted, and _needed_ — however meager, however petty they might be.

Whatever he might say, whatever he might think, Joker’s dependent on Edward now. And it…

It feels good. 

Besides, as Edward reminds himself, he’s already risen above all this. He’s on the mend. Let Joker think what he will — they’re no longer in competition with one another. Edward has Batman’s trust, such as it may be, and Joker…

Joker has _nothing_. Nothing but Edward, in any case. He’s all but admitted as much tonight.

Satisfied, and soothed as much as he knows he can be, Edward throws away the tissues, switches off the TV, and makes to turn off the light.

And nearly jumps out of his skin when a skinny set of fingers close around his wrist.

“You do know why the Coyote doesn’t move on, don’t you,” Joker whispers. “And that’s what drives you _really_ mad.”

Edward turns, and considers Joker’s gaunt, sleepy face. 

“It’s not about catching the Road Runner,” Joker mumbles, his eyes half-closed, shifting on his pillow. “It’s about the chase. It’s about letting the game play out, over and over and over and over…”

“Or maybe it’s about ambition, and being all the more determined to win every time you lose,” Edward counters quietly. 

Joker’s mouth curves into a smile. “That why you dropped out of the race? Because you never could?”

“Neither can you.”

“But that’s the whole point, Eddiepie: I don’t want to. You, on the other hand…”

Edward sighs. “Sleep, Joker.”

Joker chuckles, quietly, and settles back down. He breathes out, and doesn’t let go of Edward’s hand. 

Instead, he tugs at is as if to bring Edward closer. He whispers, “Will you stroke my hair?”

Heat explodes in Edward’s face. He looks away to hide it, and mumbles, “What are you, five?”

“Be a pal, Eddie.” Joker’s voice is so quiet and slurred Edward can barely make it out. “It helps.”

Edward risks a glance at him — his pained face, heavy breath, red nose and closed eyes. 

… Fuck’s sake.

“Fine,” he sighs. “But only if you shut up.”

Joker smiles, and makes a weak zipping motion over his mouth.

He lies back down on the pillows and stretches, and Edward pushes his chair over, close enough that he can easily reach. He stares at Joker with his mess of green curls, and takes a steadying breath.

Come on, now. This is nothing. It’s just… hair. Just hair.

Joker’s hair. 

Damn.

Edward’s hand is shy, at first — he can’t help it. He’s touched Joker’s hair before, but never this deliberately, and never just for some sort of _pleasure_ , or a caress, or whatever this is supposed to be. Never like this. Joker’s hair feels weird under his fingers, wiry and stiff and oily, badly in need of a wash. Edward thinks he should probably bully him into a shower tomorrow, except then his thoughts rush ahead of him and stumble over images he knows he shouldn’t be entertaining, and — 

Joker makes a soft, pleased sound, and wriggles up to give Edward an easier angle. And it still feels strange, after that. Far more intimate than Edward’s comfortable with, and far, far too familiar. 

But... 

Not horrible. 

All things considered.

“Do you really believe all that stuff?” Edward finds himself asking, more for distraction than anything else, while his hand eases into something like a rhythm, stroking over Joker’s hair. “About Batman. Do you really not… You don’t want to win?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Joker slurs, sounding halfway asleep already. “Issa secret.”

Edward bites back a smirk. “Not like anyone would ever believe me.”

Or maybe, they would. Which is all the more reason to keep this to himself. Being entrusted with a secret of Joker’s gives him the same kind of quiet, superior thrill that looking after him does, and he sinks into the chair, trying to ease into the moment, letting his body relax against the cushions despite the upheaval that started it all.

It’s... comfortable enough, for what it is. Weirdness and all. Which is probably why he lets his guard down enough to confess, “I can’t imagine not winning. Not being the best. It’s why I quit. If you can’t beat them…”

No response. Edward glances to the top of Joker’s head again, and listens. 

Joker’s breath isn’t exactly regular — it’s far too labored for that. But it’s regular enough to let Edward know he’s already gone.

Edward sighs. And then relaxes even further into the chair, and closes his own eyes, leaving his hand somewhat guiltily buried in Joker’s hair. 

It’s an indulgence, for sure. But he figures he’s allowed, and anyway, this much, it’s harmless. 

After all, Joker’s asked.

He stays like that for a bit, listening to Joker’s breath, and is close to dozing off himself when he catches movement in the window. 

It startles him enough that he jerks awake. Edward gets to his feet and, slowly, approaches the window, then peers out.

Nothing. Only the usual old grimy street, and the block across, most of its lights gone dark.

… All right then. 

He moves around the room quietly, takes a last look at the sleeping Joker and the window, then turns the light off in the living room and slinks off to his bedroom for some well-deserved, proper rest. He’s got a pretty good idea what the movement was, and prefers not to dwell on it. He really doesn’t want a confirmation. 

_The high road, Eddie,_ , he reminds himself. _You’re out of the race. You’re better than this._

And he is. He takes refuge in that certainty when he puts on his green pajamas and gets into bed, and closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

But he doesn’t close the bedroom door, and stays awake for the rest of the night listening for the slightest noise. And he knows, deep in his heart, that in all the ways that count? 

He hasn’t left the race at all.


End file.
